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Chapter one

Any excuse to touch me in public

Zoe

T rouble has a name tonight, and it’s Chase Walton.

I spot him the second I step into the hotel’s reception hall, leaning against the bar. Of course he looks disgustingly good in his tux. And of course, as soon as he clocks me across the dance floor, his signature cocky grin spreads across his face.

I ignore him.

I’m not even surprised. The guy could roll out of bed, hair sticking up everywhere, and still look like he belongs on a magazine cover. But tonight, he’s dialed up to a hundred, and that tux isn’t helping.

Taking a deep breath, I step further into the reception, hoping to find Charlie or Claire or someone, fucking anyone , to save me from the inevitable flirt storm headed my way.

I scan the room. Soft candlelight. Overpriced floral arrangements. A live string quartet playing something aggressively romantic in the corner.

It’s perfect—for someone else.

As I weave through the tables, I adjust my satin green slip dress and pretend I can’t feel Chase’s gaze still burning into me, but my steps slow as I spot the centerpieces.

White carnations.

White for pure love. For the kind that stays, endures, doesn’t waver when things get hard.

Breathe, Zoe. It’s just a flower. A stupid, meaningless flower. But my chest aches anyway, a complete traitor to my logic.

My grandma used to grow them—rows and rows of them in her tiny backyard, planted with her careful, gentle hands. She always said they lasted longer than other flowers.

Pure love should last.

That’s what she told me once, back when I still believed in things like love.

She’d point out all the colors one by one, a little rainbow vista in her garden, her voice warm with affection.

Red for deep devotion. Pink for never forgetting.

Purple for wild and adventurous, just like you, sweetheart .

Last month, I filled the entire funeral with white carnations. Every spare space. And yet, it still didn’t feel like enough pure love to last me until the next time I see her.

She raised me in all the ways that mattered.

Moved in after my mom died giving birth to my sister, filled the silence my dad didn’t know how to fix.

He worked long hours, always trying the best he could, but it was Gran who tucked me in at night, who taught me how to braid my hair, who said family isn’t measured by how many people are around you, but how well they love you.

We didn’t have a big, noisy household. For the most part, it was just the three of us. A quiet little triangle I didn’t realize I was clutching onto until one corner disappeared.

I exhale sharply, smoothing a hand over my dress. Before I can dwell on it any longer, a warm, familiar hand lands on my back.

“Hey, troublemaker,” Charlie Andrews says, linking her arm through mine, her giant engagement ring glinting in the candlelight.

I blink, my gaze flicking to her other hand resting on a very noticeable six-month bump. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy? Where’s your guard dog?”

“I ditched him.” She grins. “Probably not for long, though.”

Right on cue, Jake Brooks appears looking equal parts smitten and protective, like Charlie’s carrying the entire future of humanity instead of just one baby.

The man’s been surgically attached to her ever since they reconnected—after twelve years apart, two kids with one spectacularly shitty ex-husband, and a relocation halfway across the world from New Zealand to escape him.

Jake didn’t just fall for Charlie; he showed up for her kids, too.

No questions, no conditions. Just full-blown love, which led to a proposal approximately three seconds after they made it official.

Naturally, she was pregnant five seconds after that. Beautiful idiots.

Now they’re engaged, expecting, and apparently on a mission to cram a lifetime’s worth of love and kitchen countertop sex into the months before their wedding next summer.

“All good?” His hand coasts gently down her back.

Charlie leans into him with a soft smile. “Always.”

Jake mutters something under his breath which sounds like just checking , and my chest tightens. They are so ridiculously in love, it’s borderline offensive. But I get it. They’ve been through hell, and somehow come out the other side stronger than ever. They both deserve it so much.

“You okay?” Charlie tilts her head at me, eyes narrowing.

I gesture haphazardly towards the tables. “Yeah. Just… the flowers.”

Her gaze follows mine and softens when she sees them. She doesn’t ask, just nods. It’s my favorite thing about my best friend. Sometimes we don’t have to say a damn thing to know exactly what the other is thinking.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be off eating the cake you convinced Tamara she needed for her wedding day?”

Charlie’s eyes light up. “That’s where I’m heading right now.”

Jake predictably moves with her.

“You sticking to her like a shadow all night, Brooks?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Have you seen my fiancée? She’s hot. And she’s having my kid.”

Charlie laughs, bumping her hip into him playfully. “Come find me later,” she says to me before heading toward the dessert table.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I watch Jake trail behind her. “Stay away from the chocolate brownies, you two!”

Charlie flips me off over her shoulder.

Delightful. So maternal.

“Think he’s always been like that, or has their engagement activated some kind of protective caveman gene?”

I turn to find Logan Miller, rookie defenseman and affectionately known as “Pookie,” sitting at a nearby table with Reid Hutchison, the Storm’s veteran goalie.

“God, I hope it’s not genetic,” Reid mutters. “Or we’re all screwed.”

Logan hums in agreement. “Concerning.”

“Why?” I frown. “Planning to settle down soon?”

“Hell no,” he says quickly, glancing at me. “I just don’t want to start following my future wife around like a lost puppy one day.”

Reid takes a sip of his drink. “Trust me, kid. It’s a privilege when they let you follow them around.”

I raise a brow, not expecting such a quip from the grumpiest man alive. “Hutchy, are you secretly a doomed romantic?”

He doesn’t deny it, just smirks and nods toward Logan, then the dance floor. “Speaking of doomed romantics…”

I follow his gaze to a beautiful blonde in soft blue chiffon, laughing as she half-dances, half-goofs around with one of the other bridesmaids. “That’s Tallulah, right?”

Logan blinks, then clears his throat. “Uh, yeah… Lulu. Eli’s sister. Bridesmaid.”

Lulu twirls dramatically, loses her footing, and drops into a chair with a theatrical laugh, her arms raised like she meant to do it. Logan’s eyes don’t leave her as several Storm players rush to help her anyway, elbowing for the chance.

Eli, sitting at the bridal table nearby, clocks the sheer number of them intent on steadying her with as much body contact as possible—and launches from his seat, face hilariously red and stern.

Logan exhales on a frown. “Jesus Christ.”

“She’s a beautiful…” I search for a word.

Logan doesn’t. “Problem.”

I snort. “Yeah, you’re screwed.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I sing-song with a grin.

I leave Logan to his crisis and head for the bar, where Chase is unfortunately still watching me. He leans back with a grin as I sidle up next to him.

Resting my forearms on the bar, I ignore him for half a second longer than necessary before sighing deeply.

His grin just stretches wider. “Had a feeling you’d come over here eventually.”

“Considering we’re at a wedding and you’re blocking the bar, it was a solid bet.” I slide onto the barstool next to him, flagging down the bartender for a flute of champagne.

“See? You and I—we get each other.”

I side-eye him. “That’s a bold claim.”

“And yet…” He winks.

The bartender places my drink in front of me, and I take a much-needed sip before surveying him. “You seem suspiciously well-behaved tonight, Walton.”

He rests a hand over his chest in mock offence. “Zoe Carlson, are you implying I’m not normally well-behaved?”

“You have been in more PR crisis talks than actual team meetings.”

As a defenseman for the Colorado Storm and the patron saint of PR disasters, he’s easily their most chaotic liability—and has been ruining my professional life with alarming enthusiasm since the day I was contracted to the Storm account three years ago.

Chase tips his beer like it’s some sort of accomplishment. “The difference is, PR meetings are optional. Team meetings are mandatory.”

My scoff is automatic, but his eyes stay on me, too steady and deliberate and distractingly blue. He’s daring me to pick up on what he’s actually saying, wants me to acknowledge it’s no coincidence.

I don’t. Instead, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and pretend I don’t feel the weight of his attention.

My fingers tighten around my glass as I glance past him. Past the neat rows of liquor bottles reflecting the fairy lights of the dancefloor, past the polished silver taps…

To the white carnations again.

A flicker of a memory cuts through me. A ghost of a moment slipping through my ribs, piercing my heart before I can stop it. I almost wince at the sting but swallow it down, forcing my face to stay still.

Chase quietly follows my gaze.

His beer hovers just shy of his mouth, brows pulling together before his voice drops. “You okay?”

I freeze for half a second too long.

Not because of the question, but because of how he asks it. It’s not casual. He’s not teasing. He’s asking like he means it, and he’s been doing that a lot lately.

I lift my glass, take a slow sip, then roll my shoulders back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Chase watches me, eyes lingering like he knew I wouldn’t answer honestly but needed to check anyway.

And this is what unnerves me about him. Not the flirting. Not the smirking or the relentless teasing.

This.

The way he so easily peels back my mask and sees things he’s not supposed to—things I keep hidden behind a perfectly timed joke or one-liner. He’s looking at me like he’s weighing whether to push or not.

“Carnations,” I say finally, turning the glass in my hands. “They last a long time.”

He lifts his beer to his lips again with a nod, watching me over the rim. “Yeah. They do.”

There’s a beat too long between us, just enough to make my fingers twitch against my glass. I clear my throat, shifting in my seat.

Whatever this is, I don’t like it.

His jaw works, clearly wanting to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead, his lips curl with a smile, breaking the moment just enough to pull me back and give me respite.

“Know what else lasts a long time?”

I shoot him a warning look. “If you say something disgusting, I’m walking away.”

That cocky grin of his breaks free again, the same one he uses to get away with far too much.

“My desire to dance with you.”

I snort. “That was worse.”

“Oh, come on.” He leans in slightly, just close enough to make my pulse trip for half a second. “One song.”

I take a very long sip of my champagne. “No.”

“Why not? You allergic to fun?”

“I’m allergic to you .”

He laughs, but his eyes do a slow, deliberate pass over me, cataloging every inch.

“Just one dance, Zo.” His voice is low, less playful now. “You look too good to be sitting on the sidelines.”

Something simmers beneath his words, something heavier than I can deal with, so I pretend not to hear it.

“I don’t dance.”

“Since when?”

“Since you started asking.”

Chuckling, his eyes roam freely over my face trying to find a crack in my resolve. “What’s the worst that could happen? You actually enjoy yourself?”

“Highly unlikely.”

“I dunno.” Chase shrugs a shoulder, taking another sip of his beer. “I heard dancing with me is a life-changing experience.”

“From who? Your last one-night stand?”

Something shifts in his expression. It’s quick, barely a flicker, but I catch it before it’s buried back beneath his easy, reckless smirk.

“I promise I’ll behave.”

My eyes narrow on him. “Walton, the last time you said those exact words , I got roped into an emergency press conference about your fight with… Who was it? That Boucher guy from the Milwaukee Steel Riders?”

“That was a very different situation.”

“Was it?”

“I’m just saying… the guy had it coming.”

I pretend to be unimpressed. I’m not. It was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen, but I’d rather die than ever admit it.

Chase exhales, tongue flicking against his bottom lip, watching me in a way that always feels a little too dangerous.

“Okay.” His voice dips lower. “What if I told you Dancing with the Stars reached out, and I need to practice?”

I blink, then laugh. Loud. “I’d tell you you’re full of shit.”

“Pretty please?”

“What do I get out of it?”

He leans in. “An excuse to touch me in public.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Jesus Christ, Walton.”

“One day, you’re gonna look back and regret turning down greatness.” He sighs, setting his beer down with a slow shake of his head.

I roll my eyes and take another sip of my drink, refusing to dignify that with an answer. I expect him to keep pushing, but instead, his gaze lingers.

And the thing is, I know Chase Walton.

I know the way he flirts because it’s easier than asking for something real. I know the way he laughs things off because he doesn’t trust himself to take things seriously. I know the way he’s spent years treating me like a game he hasn’t figured out how to win yet.

And despite my better judgment—and my frequently voiced protests—I don’t always hate his company. I’d never tell him this, but sometimes I even enjoy it. The banter and the challenge. The way he never lets me disappear into the background.

Sighing, I tap my fingers against the stem of my glass before setting it down. Chase watches, beer forgotten, his eyes tracking every small movement.

I slide off the stool, smoothing the satin of my dress. Before I can second-guess myself, I grab his tie and give it a sharp tug, pulling him close enough to throw him off balance.

Stumbling forward, his palms catch at my waist, and his fingers flex like he’s not sure whether to steady me or pull me closer. I try to ignore the heat of his hands through the fabric, the way it seeps into me and lingers.

“Fine,” I murmur. “One dance.”

He’s momentarily startled, expression caught somewhere between shock and utter glee. But then he grins—the slow, wolfish smile of a man who should come with a warning label.

“I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t let go of his tie.

And just like that, I’ve made a terrible decision.